


Kid in a Detective Costume

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Death, Drinking, I'm too old for this shit, Not BBC Sherlock, but my own take on a modern holmes, holmes and watson are millenials, it's experimental still, the millenials are killing are killing the policing business, they're poor and helpless help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:50:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17040614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: I tried doing math and figuring out the chronology of this book series--which was all a mistake. So, Holmes is 27 at the very beginning, right? In the year of our lord and savior, 2018, that would make him a millennial, right?In this modern retelling, I'm filling in the gaps between STUD and TSOF while Holmes is struggling to solve cases and get recognition for the ones he does solve. Sherlock Holmes successfully solved the Jefferson Hope case when he was only 25. He should be at the top of the world having beat Scotland Yard and an international criminal. However, he hits failure after failure without proper support from the police or enough experience. He and Watson are still persistent. They’re just millennials killing the police industry. But really, they’re poor and young. Someone help them.





	1. Fears

**Author's Note:**

> This is very experimental. In my original idea for this AU, I thought that Watson should be a vlogger.

They had started putting aside money every week to make sure they had enough to keep little luxuries in the apartment. They found the cheapest wine that they both liked and always kept at least one bottle in the fridge, opening it when they had particularly rough days.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

The best way to open to one another was to be a little tipsy. Holmes especially found it easier to talk after a couple glasses of wine.

“Scotland Yard is always a step ahead of me, and they keep taking credit for my work.”

They sat across from each other, curled up in their chairs. It was nearing midnight. The sky was dark, and the television was on a late night news channel that was repeating the same depressing news from that evening. Watson could have been asleep already, but they had an unspoken agreement that they had to stay up for each other during these nights. It was cathartic to be up so late in their quiet apartment when the rest of the city was still running like it had all day. It gave Watson a sense of security and growing camaraderie. Maybe a little youth, too, which too often felt like it was slipping from his fingers at the end of his 20s.

“They’ll have to stop someday,” he said.

“What if they don’t? That’s what I’m worried about. What if I’m constantly losing credit for work.”

They would hardly talk about these times, though. It was too sensitive, and the conversations could only exist in these conditions. But at these times, they let go of whatever they needed to.

“I want to hear that you’re scared.”

Holmes looked up. His eyes were glassy and didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. He built up so many walls Watson knew from the first day they met. It would take work to break them down to see the vulnerability that he knew Holmes had. It would take time. Holmes was so afraid of looking powerless. Revealing his worries deepest fears would unravel everything he had crafted for himself. To protect himself. From the manipulative eyes of criminals and police offers. From anyone who could break him down for their benefit.

He looked at Watson almost like a kid.

“Tell me that you’re scared,” Watson repeated.

“Why?”

“Because you need to hear it from yourself.”

Holmes rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious. When was the last time you admitted you were scared of something?”

“Fears are for children.”

“Sherlock, you’re never going to outgrow having fears.”

He pressed his knuckles to his mouth.

“I’m afraid still,” Watson said.

“I don’t mean that no adults have fears,” Holmes said. “I mean that  _I_ don’t have fears because  _I’m_  not going to waste my time excessively worrying about things that may or may not happen and that may not even be in my control. I deal with things as they happen. I worry as they happen. I won’t waste my time with hypotheticals.”

“That’s bullshit. You have to be afraid of something. Everyone is. You can’t control it.”

Watson leaned over to pour more wine in his own glass. He sat back and watched Holmes. The more he drank, the harder it was for him to hide from Watson.

“I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of.”

Bargains worked sometimes.

“I think I know what you’re afraid of.”

“What am I afraid of?”

“That you’ve wasted time. You tried a military career, and that didn’t unfold like you wanted it to. Now you’re struggling to find a practice to work in, and you’re uncertain where to go because you’re worried you’re going to get stuck in a career you settled for.”

“That’s generic. That could be anyone about to turn 30.”

“Is it wrong?”

Watson sighed. “No.”

“See? Fears are pointless. You’re not going to get stuck because you spent years studying to be a doctor, and now that you are one, you’re either going to be consumed by regret regardless of your career path or your going to be satisfied because you learned how to take care of people and see them in a different way. It’s a gift, John. But the fear of living in constant disappointment isn’t going to help you. Almost everyone else has that fear, so the herd mentality drives to think that there’s a much higher chance of it happening that what there really is.”

Holmes was clever, and his words brought an odd comfort to Watson. But the self-righteousness of it made Watson dismiss any truth he said.

“I’m afraid of becoming an alcoholic.”

Holmes bit his lip.

“One of the first things you knew about me was that my brother was an alcoholic,” Watson said. “In my first year of university, I had to take a psychology class. My professor told us that addiction is genetic, and ever since then I’ve been afraid that I’m going to be an alcoholic like my brother.”

“And other family?”

“My dad. When he was younger.”

Holmes was quiet. Sometimes it took him a little time to process heavier emotional conversation. Watson was patient. He knew that silence wasn’t an indicator of anything bad.

“I’m afraid that dropping out of university was an irreparable mistake.”

They so rarely talked about Holmes dropping out of school. It never seemed like a big deal to Watson. When it came up for the first time, he had just shrugged and said, “It doesn’t work for everyone.”

“I could have had a degree in forensics and maybe have the Yard take me more seriously. And maybe have more resources or connections… and maybe be more successful by now.”

“Do you think you would have worked for the police?”

“No!”

The somber moment was lost, and Watson broke into a smile at Holmes’s disgust.

“So if you were still going to be an unconventional detective, why go about getting there in a conventional way? I’m sure you’ve taught yourself more than you could learn in a classroom. Besides, degrees don’t really mean anything. They’re just paper that says you satisfied requirements. What matters with a degree is that you learned something. And I think that you’ve learned plenty–and about things that the Yard knows nothing about. So why should the paper matter? The Yard’ll realize that you’re valuable to them and that papers don’t mean anything.”

Holmes’s face was red from either the wine or Watson’s compliment.

“What happened tonight?”

“Lestrade doesn’t want me involved in his new case. I think promotions are being decided soon, and he doesn’t want anything interfering with his minuscule chance of becoming a DCI.”

“He’ll get over it when he doesn’t get promoted.”

“But it’ll still be my fault somehow.” Holmes drained the last of his wine. “If something goes great, the inspectors get the credit. If something goes wrong, it’s all on me. The only time they were almost willing to give me credit was when you made a video about the Jefferson Hope case.”

“Really? That worked?”

“You didn’t realize that when it became popular, the Yard would be in hot water for not giving me credit? It was hilarious. You scared them.”

Watson straightened up. “I scared them?”

“It was almost a PR scandal.”

“What if I uploaded more about your cases?”

“Do what you want.”

“They might get a little more attention drawn to you rather than the Yard.”

Holmes was drowsy from the wine. Watson could tell by the way he sank back into his chair and grinned.

“You can always come with me when I go out for cases. If clients don’t mind, you can sit in on meetings. And maybe an appearance at Scotland Yard would bully them into letting me in on more interesting cases.”

“Alright. I’d love to. I’m not doing anything else with my time.”

“We can split the pay 50/50.”

Watson would have done it for free. “We’ll talk about it later. You don’t make enough to split it.”

“But either way we’ll be partners.”

The word made Watson’s heart swell.

“Partners,” he echoed.

He left his unfinished wine on the coffee table and walked to Holmes. He offered a hand and helped Holmes to his feet.

If their drinking sessions didn’t end with a resolution, they would normally drink until they could come up with a superficial one under the deceptive haze of alcohol. It wasn’t a bad way of coping. They never thought of it that way because eventually the need for drinking lessened. Eventually they were able to sit together and talk over dinner or in front of a camera if it was entertaining.

Eventually they were closer and warmer.


	2. Kid in a Detective Costume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set after The Greek Interpreter. I was hoping for a softer relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft than what people usually show in more TV shows. In the canon, their relationship seems to be full of mutual support and appreciation but some good-old sibling banter.

“It had to be done with the warrant.”

Holmes watched the body of Kratides, hidden from sight in a body bag, be lifted into back of the coroner’s van. Watson stood off to the side, talking with the medical examiner and undoubtedly giving a thorough report of how they found the body.   
  
“We could have been here an hour earlier,” Holmes said. 

“And if we couldn’t get in because we didn’t have a warrant–”

“We didn’t  _need_  a warrant. I was right.”   
  
“There are proper ways to do these things, Holmes.” Gregson crossed his arms. “If you need help from the police, then you do it our way, alright? It’s not the other way around. Sometimes we don’t get to crime scenes in time. That’s part of the job, and if you don’t think we feel horrible about that–if you don’t think I feel horrible about tonight–then you’ve got the wrong idea about the police. We care, Holmes. We have a system that we keep because it works for us more than it fails. You can’t do whatever you want in the world. You’re going to have learn rules at some point, and I suggest learning them soon.”

  
Holmes clenched his jaw. A lecture wasn’t needed. The conversation from before rang in his ears.   
  
 _It can’t be rushed, Holmes. Be patient.  
  
You can’t possibly go any faster? _  
  
 _As long as you’re a kid in a detective costume, you’re going to have to follow my pace.  
_  
It only furthered his rage and made him consider how much trouble he would get into if his fist landed in the middle of Gregson’s face.  
  
Mycroft’s hand on his back pulled him out of his angry fantasies.   
  
“I think Dr. Watson is finished,” Mycroft said. “We aren’t needed here anymore. Thank you, Inspector.”  
  
Gregson nodded politely, though he was still visibly upset. Mycroft took Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him away.   
  
“You can’t argue with the police, Sherlock. They didn’t want to be involved in this case from the start.”  
  
Watson joined them and walked to their cab in silence.   
  
Holmes slouched in his seat, looking out the window as they drove away from the house and into the London streets. The sun had set long ago, and the streetlights and occasional headlights filled the cab with short bursts of warm light. No one seemed to be asleep yet. Windows of houses and apartments were illuminated. Parted curtains showed glimpses of families and couples settling in for the night, unaware that passing by them was a failed detective leaving the murder scene he should have prevented.   
  
“Don’t let this trouble you,” Mycroft said.   
  
The cab had stopped. Holmes looked over to see his brother stepping out. He didn’t respond.   
  
“Goodnight,” Mycroft said to Watson with a glance to Sherlock and a sigh that seemed to pass on the unspoken message  _Take care of him_.   
  
“Goodnight.” And Watson meant  _Of course I will._  
  
Once they were in their own apartment, Holmes felt the weight of the evening fully settle on his skeleton and attempt to drag him through the floorboards to the lowest pit of the earth. He compromised and sank on the sofa.   
  
“Are you hungry?” Watson asked, his voice quiet in the same way he talked to patients.   
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you want to talk?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Holmes sunk deeper on the sofa. Watson hadn’t failed. He helped Melas out of the room; pulled him through the charcoal gas and immediately started his orders. He cleaned Melas’s face with steady hands and brought water to his lips as Holmes ran through the house and yelled at Gregson. In all of the chaos, Watson kept his composure and knew his place. He was the only one that was successful.   
  
There was nothing to discuss. Watson said goodnight. Holmes closed his eyes and pressed his heels into the coffee table. 

If he was going to sleep that night, it would only be when his body succumbed to exhaustion and left his body limp where he was sitting. Time didn’t seem to pass right. He couldn’t tell how long he had been thinking about Kratides’s puffy, vacant face staring at Holmes through the smoke. And in the hallway, Watson pronouncing him dead before sprinting to Melas’s side, leaving the body to continue to stare at Holmes as if a little spirit lingered and knew who to blame.   
  
His thoughts were a downward spiral for more than an hour.   
  
If he hadn’t bothered going to Gregson and faced the consequences of breaking in later.   
  
If he hadn’t wasted time contacting the people that never even got a chance to respond. Or at least weren’t so quick to leave the Diogenes Club. Then, he would have been there when Mycroft got the call about the address of Sophy Kratides. They would have saved so much time then. Probably enough time to get a warrant and still make it to the house before the men disappeared.   
  
He wanted to go outside and smoke, but he was supposed to be quitting. Would the taste of tobacco in his mouth remind him of the charcoal that violated his lungs?   
  
Maybe if he had gotten to the club earlier in the evening. Or didn’t bother showing off to Watson when they first got there and had learned about the case sooner.   
  
Maybe if he had been more careful he could have had more time.   
  
His phone was vibrating in his pocket, and he knew better than to ignore it.   
  
“Hi.”  
  
“Are you having trouble sleeping?”  
  
It was a question from childhood when Holmes’s curiosity would get the better of him during the day and by night the books with gory pictures would revisit him. He would stand in the doorway of Mycroft’s room, unsure if he would be invited in. But Mycroft would always be awake, knowing ahead of time that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with the images of death playing over and over in his head.   
  


_Are you having trouble sleeping?_  
  
“Yes.”   
  
The answer was always yes.   
  
“You can’t blame yourself.”  
  
“I can’t not.”  
  
“You weren’t the one that imprisoned them.”  
  
“But it was my job to stop it.”  
  
“You can’t solve every case in time. There’s going to be causalities, and you can’t always take responsibility when you’re up against the evils in this world. There’ll be more deaths you can’t prevent, but there’ll be some you can. I believe the point the inspector was trying to make tonight is that death happens in your job–but not always. His death wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.”  
  
Holmes couldn’t think of a response. Mycroft never had a soothing tone, but his logic was somewhat soothing.   
  
“If Dr. Watson hadn’t saved Melas tonight, would you say that he was at fault?” Mycroft asked.   
  
And Sherlock knew the answer. The situation would be out of Watson’s hands. You can’t reverse the poisoning if there’s already too much exposure. It wouldn’t be Watson’s fault if nothing could be done.   
  
Holmes understood what Mycroft was getting at.   
  
“No.”  
  
“Maybe he can offer a few words of wisdom about losing clients.”  
  
“Perhaps.”

“You know, Sherlock, it is nice knowing there is someone with you. I get more sleep now.”  
  
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”  
  
“Talk to the doctor in the morning.”  
  
Holmes hung up. It was close to 1 am, but maybe Watson was awake. Or a text could wake him up. He probably wouldn’t mind.   
  
“You’re an asshole. I was asleep.”  
  
Holmes turned around. Watson stood in the doorway wearing his pajamas and scowling.   
  
“But you’re awake now so you might as well stay up.”  
  
Watson’s face softened, picking up on the urgency of his words disguised by an even tone.   
  
So Watson made tea and sat down. And they talked. Not about death but about the same mundane topics they covered that afternoon before leaving for the club. 


End file.
